The Cassandra Complex
by Nonchey Niente
Summary: Johnny has a very unusual vacation (for him, anyway).


Here we go then. 

This is in response to Les's most recent challenge. It is meant to follow shortly after The Storm, I guess. I hope you enjoy it - please let me know one way or the other.. 

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"Have I missed the mark, or, like true archer, do I strike my quarry? Or am I a prophet of lies, a babbler from door to door?" 

[Cassandra - The Agamemnon of Aeschylus, l.1194] 

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO 

The Very Reverend Gene Purdy was in the business of worrying. He considered himself very good at it - it was a gift to him from God, to help him to appreciate the many burdens carried by his flock. For him NOT to worry would have been bordering on blasphemous, a renunciation of God's purpose for him in this world. 

So, worrying about Johnny Smith was as natural for him as breathing. 

Purdy steepled his fingers together and regarded Johnny through the pillars they made carefully, as the young man sat fidgeting with the silver handle of his cane in front of Purdy's enormous cedar wood desk. Purdy's expression was impassive enough for now, figuring as he did that he should be careful not to show too much concern for Johnny. Johnny did not take kindly to pitying looks. 

There was a less than comfortable pause. The background buzz of life on a busy University campus pushed through the doors and windows of Purdy's office like the tendrils of a creeping plant. 

"So, Gene...." said Johnny finally. He was about to ask a question to which he didn't really want to know the answer, and was approaching it with his proverbial feet dragging. "What were you saying on the 'phone about a vacation?" 

"Oh, not exactly a vacation, Johnny. More of a period of...isolation. Recuperation. My original idea of taking you away to the Lakeside Retreat turned out to be...ah, well, not quite as I had planned for you. You have been through a lot recently, and..." Purdy's voice trailed off. It was uncharacteristic of him not to finish a sentence, and the words he left unsaid were even more potent than if he had expressed them out loud. 

Johnny's mouth made a brave attempt at a smile but Purdy noticed that his eyes made no effort to follow suit. "I can see you don't exactly concur?" 

"No Gene, it isn't that. It just all seems....well, a bit too good to be true. 'Escape from the humdrum routine of your mind-bending visions for a week! Miracle cure! Guaranteed results!' You know? Like 'I Can't Believe its Not Butter'?" 

Purdy smiled. "I understand what you mean John. But a break might still be a good idea. Away from Cleaves Mills, away from your mother's house." He paused; ready to change the subject, declare it closed. His grey eyes held a steely resolve which was reflected in the set of his chin. Johnny wondered briefly how far he would get if he argued with Purdy. His argument didn't stand up - one moment he was trying to get Johnny OUT of isolation - now suddenly he seemed to be suggesting the opposite. _What's his REAL motive, I wonder?_ thought Johnny. 

"By the way - Sarah asked me if I would kindly give you this," he said, the tiniest hint of discomfort hesitating on the edge of his voice. He held Johnny's gaze and put a rather dog-eared blue paperback book on the table between them. It was 'Captain Corelli's Mandolin' by Louis de Bernieres. Johnny said nothing, merely raising one eyebrow quizzically. "I expect she considered you might appreciate something to read whilst you're away. Unless of course you would like to discuss the GOOD Book with me for a week, of course." Purdy managed to keep his expression po-faced for a few moments before laughing heartily. "That was a joke, John - don't look so worried!" Johnny graced him with a wry smile, and the mood between the two men relaxed a little. 

"Here," said Johnny seriously, holding out his cane to Purdy. "Your jokes need this more than I do." 

Purdy's telephone rang at that moment and he excused himself to answer it, by raising one carefully manicured palm. 

Johnny looked at the book cautiously, wondering if handling it would trigger a vision. He really didn't want any visions of Sarah and Walt together right now - curled up together on a sofa in front of a log fire, reading, or in bed, reading or........ Instinctively Johnny used the end of his cane to sweep the book off the edge of the table and into his duffel bag. "Thanks" he said quietly to himself. "I'll smoke it later". 

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox 

  
Dana Bright handed Johnny a small cardboard box - not wrapped, but with a single ex-Christmas present adhesive bow stuck casually in one corner. It was a personal CD player. 

"What have I done?" said Johnny archly, looking at her from under his lowered brows. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"My mother always warned me to beware of beautiful women bearing gifts." 

"Oh, I'm quite certain I am the type of woman your mother warned you about, Johnny. No - it's not really a gift. Some guy gave it to me last Christmas but I already have one. A much better one in fact." 

"Do you mean a better CD player, or a better guy?" 

Dana ignored his remark. "He was a journalist. Think he worked for NBC. It was about as much of the alphabet as he knew how to use! Ha ha!" 

"That good, huh?" 

"He was 'Not My Type'. You know what I mean?" she said, a hint of flirtation in her tone. She turned to leave, with a parting "I put batteries in it for you!" and a casual flick of her mane of red hair. 

Johnny watched her walk away. Truthfully, he would have found it difficult not to. Once she was out of sight he gave his head a little shake, as if to clear it, and pulled the packaging off his new gift. As his fingers brushed the cool, smooth metal and plastic of the little player, the sensation changed abruptly and he found himself feeling and looking at the smooth, glossy paper of an expensive electronics catalogue. He could feel Dana's quiet sense of satisfaction as she had ordered him the most expensive player on the whole page. The vision faded, leaving him puzzled and more than a little touched. 

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox 

"You mean - like a Health Farm?" said Johnny incredulously, two hours later. He was seated on the smooth white calfskin seats in the back of Gene Purdy's limousine. He gripped his cane nervously, wondering if he could use it to batter Purdy senseless and escape before the nightmare grew any larger. Purdy, filled with the self-assurance that he always knew what was best for John Smith, smiled sagely and said nothing. "Gene, please tell me you are kidding and we're actually going to Disneyland, will you?". There was genuine desperation in Johnny's question. _I cannot BELIEVE he's managed to get me this far already - what the heck is wrong with me?_ thought Johnny ruefully. _Even Bruce had to HIT me to get me in his car... _

"Johnny, one of the most important lessons I have learnt in my capacity as leader of the Faith Heritage Alliance, is that it is my duty to look after myself. If I don't, I run the risk of deteriorating to such a degree - " Johnny stared at him, astonished to think of Purdy as 'deteriorating' " - to such a degree that I am unable to look after others. It is a lesson you might find useful." 

Johnny opened his mouth to make a wise crack, but saw Purdy's impassive expression and decided against it at the last moment. Instead, he sank back into the comforting embrace of the luxury car seat and abandoned himself to his fate. Maybe it didn't matter to let himself get pushed around a bit by Purdy. In some ways it was nice to have someone else worry about the details. Johnny half-closed his eyes and let himself be hypnotised by the repetitive swing of the telephone wires strung along the side of the road, as the car slid quietly along the miles. 

oxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo 

Of course, it was _never_ going to be called a Health Farm. It was an Alternate 

Therapeutic and Remedial Retreat. Apart from some of the staff, Johnny was by far the youngest person he could see. His room was one of the state rooms on the highest floor, with a superb view of the intensively manicured grounds. Perhaps he could just pull up a chair and sit looking out of the window for a few days? 

"Well now," said Purdy. "We have a couple of hours before our first appointment. Why don't you use that time to rest after your journey? I'll meet you in the Treatments Arena at 4pm". Purdy glanced around Johnny's lavishly appointed room, and went into the en-suite bathroom. He came back out carrying a very large and comfy-looking bath robe - the type that expensive hotels always provide for their guests, and the type that a younger, more impetuous Johnny Smith might seriously have considered stashing in his luggage and taking home with him at the end of his stay. "You'll need to wear this when you come down. Please, Johnny - don't be late, will you? These sessions are very highly sought after!" 

Johnny opened his mouth and raised his hand to ask Purdy what exactly it was that they were going to be doing, but Purdy was already gone. Johnny was left with the distinct impression that his guardian was avoiding the issue. Perplexed, he turned his attention instead to his room. No television. The picture window was the main focus of the room instead. No telephone - just an intercom-style link to the front desk. Obviously one was supposed to spend one's time communicating with the Inner Self rather than with the Outer Friends and Relatives. There was a large laminated "menu" of the various treatments available at the spa. 

Johnny lounged insolently in the bed, acting disinterested, without even kicking off his boots first. He was still trying to feel resentful towards Purdy for this "intervention" into his own private misery, as well as the fact that most of his friends were obviously in on the plot, too. The bad feeling was fading fast, being replaced with a genuine gratitude. Nevertheless, Johnny felt obliged to fight it every step of the way. 

The menu was extensive, on two sides of the card. Johnny read: 

"Holistic treatments administered by our highly trained staff of experts to further enhance your spiritual, mental and physiological well-being. Programmes tailor-made to your needs. Please enquire at reception for further details. 

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* Reiki foot massage  
(nope - too tactile, thought Johnny. Plus I'm ticklish.) 

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* Acupuncture  
(aargh - no more needles, thought Johnny) 

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* Aromatherapy Massage  
(too touchy; possibility of smelling like a tart's boudoir for the rest of the week...Nope) 

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* Indian scalp massage   
(no, I don't want ANYONE messing with the hair) 

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* Tai Chi classes  
(how would that work out with the cane, then?) 

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* Colonic Irrigation 

Johnny blanched at that prospect. The only kind of irrigation I need right now is a drink, he thought, throwing the menu down and moving to investigate the mini bar. It was perhaps fortunate that he didn't look on the last page of the Treatments Menu. If he had done, he might have had read about being 'reborn through the fractal Womb of Creation'; had some forewarning of what Reverend Purdy had in mind for their 4 o'clock appointment, and gone an even paler shade of grey. 

The mini bar was less than interesting. It was well stocked, but with nothing more stimulating than isotonic fruit juice laced with guarano and ginkobilboa. Johnny really didn't want to drink something he couldn't even pronounce, but which sounded faintly like something a bird might do down a cliff-face. 

He emptied his duffel bag in a heap on the bed and inspected his new gifts - Dana's second-hand CD player with its miniature speakers, a home-burned CD from Bruce - "John's Chillout Mix", and the raggedy copy of Captain Corelli from Sarah. The book held his attention. He still had not touched it, but he knew it was inevitable that he would pick it up and have a vision of Sarah. He had been too long already today without a vision - just odd flashes and feelings now and then - nothing very tangible. 

Slowly he reached out and - 

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heard Sarah crying softly. She had just finished reading the book - Johnny could sense her tears on his own face. He could feel her own identification with the characters in the story. They were lovers - their lives torn apart by the insanity and brutality of war. Events beyond their control. 

Johnny's heart froze suddenly as he felt Sarah's regret and the overwhelming, grinding guilt at the thought of that night she had come to his house. On a pretence. They had made love one last time. Her guilt was founded on something he couldn't quite grasp, but which he knew was not as simple as that of a married woman indulging in a meaningless one-night-stand. 

Johnny dropped the book reflexively, as though it was burning his hand. 

He was not so sure he wanted to read it now. 

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox 

"Flotation Tank Therapy?" said Johnny incredulously, an hour or so later. His whole day was turning into a series of expressions of incredulity, roughly one every two hours. 

"Really Johnny - I am surprised you hadn't considered it long ago. Hasn't your friend Bruce ever suggested it? He seems well apprised of New Age therapies." 

"Well, I'm still working my way through all of his OLD age therapies, actually." 

"I tried floating in the Dead Sea on one of my annual trips to the Holy Land a few years ago" said Purdy, smiling fondly at the memory. "This has a similar principle - the water is saturated with salts that allow you to float without effort. The difference is of course, with this technique, you don't need a bottle of sunscreen. Quite an important consideration for a man with your skin colouring, of course. 

"You're not claustrophobic, are you John?" said Purdy, his face sporting an irritating little half-smile. Suddenly Johnny knew it wasn't meant as a question, but as a statement. Purdy had done his homework, carried out his research, and already knew the answer. 

John Smith (no middle initial), 34 years old, car-wreck survivor, coma patient for six years, brain-damaged and brain-repaired PSYCHIC - suffers from no medically recognised phobias. 

Johnny looked on in alarm as Purdy started to undo the belt of his large fluffy white towelling bath robe. He himself had nothing on under his, not having been told any different. Endless medical examinations and treatments at various hospitals had long ago conditioned him to automatically strip to the bare essentials. But to Johnny's eternal gratitude, Purdy had on a pair of neat, dark blue swimming trunks with the Dior monogram over the left hip. Johnny briefly thought about becoming an instant convert to Christianity, so that he could give thanks properly. The Reverend hung his robe on a brass hook, opened the door to his tank, and stepped inside without further comment. 

The door hissed shut behind him, suddenly reminding Johnny of a science fiction film he had seen, with people sealing themselves away for years and years of silent death-like sleep in cryogenic capsules. He gave an involuntary shudder at the analogy. It was just a little too close to home for comfort. 

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox 

Johnny Smith turned out the little half-assed excuse for a light in the corner of the tank and lowered himself down into eighteen inches of tepid water, in which about 800 pounds of Epsom salts had been dissolved. In spite of his scepticism, he was almost enjoying the novelty of the experience. Floating required no exertion - he simply lay there, buoyed up by the minerals in the liquid. 

The softly intoned instructions and canned music that had been playing since he got into the tank were fading away gradually, and the blackness was becoming absolute. His eyes still tried instinctively to perceive any point of reference, but there was none. He was just chasing the ghostly impressions left on the back of his retinas by the courtesy light, but then they too were gone. The silence and the darkness descended suddenly, like hungry vultures, terrifying him. For a moment he heard wings beating, but it was only the feathery rhythm of his own heart, tapping in time to his fears. 

Johnny hated it. 

Or at least, he did at first. Very slowly, he started to get used to the absence of stimulation. The water and the air were controlled at the same temperature as his body, and gradually the distinction between the two became blurred against his naked skin. He became less and less aware of any sensation of touch around him - just the water and the air. His limbs floated far enough away from the rest of his body that he wasn't even touching HIMSELF. There was nothing. No light. No sound - bar that of his own pulse, amplified by the salty water and the liquid density of his own body. Johnny fought off an unexpected rising tide of panic from inside his gut, struggling to hold on to the sane, rational idea that he was not in any danger. 

No touch, sight, smell or sound. No gravity, even. 

Johnny felt the usual clatter of his active mind start to quieten, to collapse down in on itself. Random memories, some of which he couldn't identify, flashed back and forth like a slowed-down game of tennis in his head. Gently they too started to ebb and seep out of the corners of his mind as though through cracks in the wall of a bucket, leaving nothing but an awful vacuum. 

He wondered if he was going to fall asleep. Physically, he was finally beginning to relax. But his mind was starting to experience a kind of hunger. Fingers of thought were trying to touch something. Anything. 

Without warning, a veritable fireworks display of incandescent lights suddenly burst into being behind Johnny's eyelids. He snapped his eyes open immediately, but there was no discernable difference. He was hallucinating! Initially startled, then amused, he finally decided to lie back and enjoy the show. 

The lights faded and died. Johnny was utterly bereft. He thought he might start crying. He hadn't really cried since Kate died. His own heart thudded in a persistent, irritating fashion, as though rubbing salt into the memory's wound. 

The hallucinations continued. They were not like his visions. There was no background noise of tension at the constant thought that at any moment, a single touch might fire his mind away into someone else's life like a bullet out of the barrel of a gun. 

So.....this was what it was like with no Visions? 

The experience reminded Johnny of something. Barriers in his mind were somehow stopping him from remembering exactly what it was. There was something in there he was not SUPPOSED to remember - something fluttering in the corner of his memory like a faint image glimpsed in the half light - as soon as you turn your eyes to it, it vanishes again. 

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Stop trying, Johnny....He was standing in the centre of his own mental landscape, not moving, not listening or looking. Just waiting for the memory to summon the courage to show itself to him. _Come on...come out...._

Abruptly Johnny sat up and groped desperately for the light switch. His heart felt like it was trying to escape from its cage of muscle and bone. His breath came in short ragged gasps like someone starved of oxygen. The salty solution, disturbed by his sudden explosion of movement, sloshed angrily around his limbs as his fingers fumbled with the inner catch of the door... 

And so, Reverend Gene Purdy, fresh from his own session of deep relaxation and meditation, was greeted by the disconcerting sight of John Smith, shivering, naked, dripping wet and plainly terrified half out of his mind. 

OoooooOoooooOoooooOoooooOoooooOoooooOoooooOoooooOoo 

"I think...." said Johnny some hours later, " I think I know why I will never be able to get rid of these visions. The price I would have to pay the exterminator is just too much." 

"I beg your pardon?" said Purdy, toying unenthusiastically with his macrobiotic brown rice and alfalfa salad. 

Johnny took a slow, thoughtful slug of his isotonic fruit juice laced with guarano and ginkobilboa. For a long moment he said nothing. "Is this prompted by whatever happened in the Flotation Tank?" asked Purdy quietly. 

Not trusting himself to speak, Johnny only nodded. 

"What did you discover in there?" 

"Memories, Gene. I remembered....what it was like. To be in the coma. Before I woke up. Before the visions started." 

"Is that what frightened you so badly?" 

"That was partly it, yes." 

"But...there was something else, as well, wasn't there?" 

"Yes. I think I may have discovered a phobia..." 

"Let me guess, John. A fear of enclosed watery spaces." 

To his credit, Johnny tried to laugh at that. But Purdy knew him well enough to recognise that he was trying to engage a mask of humour to hide stronger, darker feelings. Fear, confusion, anger. 

"I'm scared that.....when it comes to it, the crunch, fulfilling my 'destiny' " Johnny hooked his fingers in the air in a sardonic parody of quotation marks, " - whatever that is - no one will listen to me." 

"Ahhh, yes. The Cassandra Complex. The exquisite gift of flawless prophesy, tempered by the ghastly curse of having no one believe you. Then having to watch the consequences." 

"Didn't she predict her own death - and then died because no one believed her?" 

"Yes, Johnny." 

"Hmmm..." 

There was another pause. Purdy felt almost certain that Johnny's attitude of ignorance towards his destiny was a decoy - that actually John Smith knew much more than he was saying. Purdy pretended to show a renewed interest in his food, but in reality he was just rearranging the different elements of his meal on the plate, trying to get it to look more appetising. It was a metaphor for what he was doing with his thoughts. Mentally, he was attempting to do something similar with the words to a question he badly wanted to ask, so very badly. He knew he had to tread very carefully at this point in the proceedings. He was stalking Johnny. He was hunting the truth.

"John..." Purdy spoke very quietly, his voice thick and velvety. He paused for effect, waiting to be certain he had Johnny's full attention. "Are you now telling me that you have some inkling of what your destiny is? Did you discover something else in that Tank?" 

Johnny stared at Purdy. Not for the first time, Purdy was taken aback by the intensity of that stare. It reminded him of a rabbit, caught in the headlights of its own approaching doom. Johnny remained silent, his lips pursed and white. 

Once again, he found himself facing a dilemma. A large part of him wanted desperately to confide in Gene Purdy about what he had seen in Greg Stillson's handshake. If only he could somehow lessen his own burden by dividing it up into convenient parcels - some to Purdy, maybe some to Dana Bright... 

Purdy, for one, could put a large dent in Stillson's finances and his credibility generally, just with one well-aimed swat of his cheque book. And Dana - well, Johnny was already painfully aware of the damage her attentions could do when she focussed her talents on a subject that interested her. 

But it was never going to be as simple as that. 

From his research so far Johnny had drawn one very solid conclusion about Stillson - that he was very ambitious man. Such men were often by their very nature also dangerous men. Johnny feared that there might just be too great a personal cost for Gene Purdy and Dana Bright to pay if he were to include them in his plans. Stillson could so easily be capable of terrorising or even hurting either of them. Purdy could lose face, credibility and respect. Dana too might risk more than just her reputation as a dedicated and skilled journalist. And just exactly how far involved were Purdy, Dana and Stillson, anyway?

As these thoughts cart-wheeled round Johnny's mind, Purdy watched him. He knew he was on to something - like a hound who had just caught the scent of its prey. 

"Is that what you have predicted, Johnny? Your own death?" 

Still Johnny said nothing. The tension seemed to crackle between them like an electric storm, building in the sky miles away before breaking on a summer evening. But they had come to a fork in the road, with the truth about Stillson in one direction... and Purdy had gone the wrong way. Johnny saw an opportunity to escape without revealing the whole truth. For now. Until he knew more about what it was Purdy wanted out of his involvement with Stillson.

"Well.....all recovered coma patients do run the risk of returning to that state, Gene. Medical fact. One really decent blow to the back of the head ought to just about do it..." 

"John, really! You hardly look like a man living on borrowed time. You shouldn't be afraid of death now, surely? God has brought you back for some purpose. You should work to discover that purpose - not be frightened of it. " 

Johnny bit down hard on the temptation to remind Purdy that even Jesus Christ had had SOME qualms about accepting death as His fate in order to fulfil His destiny - "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me...." 

Both men finished their meal in silence, aware that the holiday was suddenly over. 

It was time to get back to work...


End file.
